by Gary McAvoy
“They were well organized, padrino, and we were outnumbered, though the old woman put a bullet through the Frenchman, so one of their strongest is at least temporarily incapacitated. They took all of us by surprise. It will not happen again.
“I did, however, attend to that other business satisfactorily. The judge will be of no concern to you any longer.”
“Yes, you did well there,” Gallucci gruffly acknowledged. “That’s one less problem-maker in the courts.”
“How would you like me to handle the priest and his people now?”
“I will be in touch with you on that. Please remain available in the coming days.” He ended the call.
As the newly appointed capintesta, Gallucci feared he was off to a terrible start. Not only had this latest plan failed, Operation Scambio had been exposed, his palazzo had been breached, confidential files were taken, and several of his operatives had been killed or were missing. The only thing that had gone right was the sale of the Raphael, even though that had been touchy.
He was losing control. Perez’s premium services would be needed again. But first, he must meet with Cardinal Abruzzo and inform him of his plan.
“As Vivaldi’s notes imply, Father Dominic, Cardinal Coscia’s Journal is key to everything now,” said Dario Contini, as the two sat in the lounge at Ca’ Sagredo in Venice. “We must extricate it from the Camorra. To have a register of all sales of forgeries over the centuries would give us valuable leads tracking down these priceless paintings. And I don’t doubt for a moment that it is still being kept updated. In fact, that journal may be the most important record of art history in all the world. I cannot think of another like it.
“Granted, many of the paintings may be lost by now,” Contini admitted, “but given that the nobles of the time—the only ones who could afford such luxuries, apart from the Church—were the likely procurers, the customs of their houses would lend themselves to hereditary guardianship through the ages. And the Vatican would have a substantial stake in such knowledge, too, since the Church itself had commissioned a great many works.”
“How do you propose to get the journal, Dario?”
“I was hoping you would ask,” Contini said, a coy smile forming as he spoke. “Given our arcane laws, there is nothing I can do at this point without more compelling evidence. But that ancient journal would clinch it. You have some accomplished resources at hand—Signor Marco Picard and the two Swiss Guards, and yourself, of course—so with proper encouragement, perhaps there are ways you can act where my hands would be tied…” He left the suggestion hanging in the air, hoping Dominic would pick up on his implication of extralegal activity.
He watched as Dominic bit his lip in thought.
“I understand your predicament now,” said the priest, “but this might be better directed toward Marco, who, shall we say, has less restrictive aptitude in terms of creative solutions to such matters. I’ll take it up with him.”
“Bene! Molto bene,” said Contini, smiling widely now.
In Hana’s suite at the Ca’ Sagredo, Marco lay shirtless on her bed as she changed the dressing on his shoulder wound. Since the old woman’s bullet had passed through his fleshy deltoid muscle tissue—above the bicep and just outside the subdeltoid bursa—it wasn’t that serious an injury, needing only time to heal. There would be scars, but as Hana could see glancing over his toned body, it was clear he’d had many other injuries from past battles.
“You put yourself in harm’s way a lot, don’t you?” she asked with a mix of concern and admiration.
“It is my job,” he said, laughing. “What else would you expect of a career soldier?” He looked deep and lovingly into her pale green eyes, not expecting an answer.
She slowly leaned down and kissed him, a long, passionate caress of his lips beneath hers. Sitting up, she ran her fingers across his smooth chest as they gazed at each other in silence, the only sound being the baritone strains of a gondolier outside an open window to the Grand Canal.
It had been a long time since Hana had someone to care for like this, and she savored every moment with the man she had once pushed away as being too obsessed over her well-being. Her grandfather meant well, assigning Marco to her for protection, but it took a while for her to accept him. Now it had become something more. Something much more.
Chapter 46
With Valentina Calabrese now dead and no one else yet vetted to do the confidential bookkeeping, that work fell to Giuseppe Franco, as he had done from time to time in the past.
He dreaded this menial drudgery, so beneath his talents as a painter of masterpieces. But as his work was always done in secret—for most of the staff assumed that Feudatario only performed restorations and nothing more—only he knew the more sensitive areas of the business. And there were several paintings yet to record in the ancient Coscia Journal. At least he considered that a historical privilege.
The previous capintesta, Don Lucio Gambarini, trusted Giuseppe above all others, and treated him like a brother. In fact, he was the only trustee apart from Gambarini, and now Gallucci, to have the combination to the Gardall safe in the padrino's office.
Since Gallucci was now meeting with Cardinal Abruzzo, no one else was in the building. Giuseppe entered the office, went to the safe, and opened it. Looking inside he found the usual tall stacks of euros piled to one side, a mound of Italian bearer bonds, a Glock 19, and, on its own shelf high in the tall black safe, a brown leather satchel containing the leather bound Coscia Journal.
Pulling down the hefty case, he laid it on the Don’s desk, then took a seat. Giuseppe had not had to handle this kind of task for a year or more now, but there was always a thrill connected to the experience. The further back one went, the Journal’s thick pages featured fine calligraphic handwriting, from times when penmanship was taken seriously as its own personal art form. Every page was filled with intricate details of each painting and its related transactions by each restorer or copyist going back to the 18th century. So many masters had gone before him; Giuseppe was currently the last in a very long line of the best forgers the world had ever seen, albeit anonymously. In that, he took great pride. It was only in this book that the real painters’ names were known, names which the world would never come to learn. In that, he felt a sense of sorrow.
He had entered the basic details of the Raphael and two other paintings he had worked on which had yet to be recorded—the artist’s names, the paintings’ names, the subject of each, their dimensions, and the kinds of work that had been performed. Now he just needed the sales transactional data, which was also kept in the safe.
Returning to the Gardall, he pulled out a dark red folder containing Don Gallucci’s private details of each sale. He sat back down and opened the folder, extracting the form for the Raphael’s secret sale to Eldon Villard.
Giuseppe was impressed, but not surprised at the name of the buyer. Of course, he knew who Villard was. Anyone alive knew his name. But what made Giuseppe sit bolt upright in shock was when he saw the price paid for his work: €25 million!
And since these were private under-the-table transactions, no taxes had been paid, so this was pure profit.
He considered his own salary, €70,000 each year, nearly three times the average salary in all of Italy. And though he lived comfortably on that, his immediate reaction viewed it as a pittance compared to the outrageously priced fake Raphael. His Raphael!
He did not realize paintings were going for such extravagant prices now. He thought back to all the past canvases he had painstakingly created. The Camorra was making a fortune on his own back!
Something must be done about this, he thought. I should get a percentage of the proceeds, at the very least! Even one percent isn’t too much to ask…there is no one else who can do what I do… I am indispensable. They need me!
I must speak with Don Gallucci.
Dr. Silvia Vecchio was one of the most well-known figures in the intimate world of fine art. Known colloquially as a �
�fakebuster,” her gifted forensic talents were in global demand by prominent museums, art galleries, auction houses, and private institutions whose art collections were of enormous value to their balance sheets and respected by their shareholders as prudent investments. Even on the mildest hint of fraud or suspected deceit, Vecchio’s keen evaluations often made the difference between establishing rock solid authenticity, or determining a recently sold work by an Old Master to be an excellent fake, thus declaring it all but worthless. She did all this by eye and gut instinct; if doubts shadowed any painting she was inspecting, she would have it subjected to traditional forensic testing. And her instincts usually proved correct.
Bound on a healthy retainer to Eldon Villard for years, when she received his call to inspect the Raphael, she rescheduled her immediate commitments, as were the terms of her contract with the billionaire. Having had his assistant email Vecchio the painting’s Condition Report and associated documentation, the next day he sent his private jet to pick her up in Rome and deliver her to the Luxembourg Freeport.
On her arrival by his private limousine, she was greeted by Villard’s assistant at the entrance, then escorted to Vault 42. She carried with her a Pelican case outfitted with specialized tools and solutions essential to her analyses.
“A pleasure to see you again, Monsieur Villard,” Vecchio said without emotion as they shook hands. Her eyes were immediately drawn to the object of her visit, hanging in its place of honor beneath perfect lighting. Setting down the case on a wooden table against the wall, she approached the painting.
“May I offer you a glass of champagne, Silvia?” Villard asked.
“No, thank you, monsieur. I prefer to work without such influences. Perhaps after I spend some time with your Madonna?”
It did not escape Villard’s notice that she didn’t say The Madonna. Vecchio was precise in her language and analysis, blessed with a nearly instant prickle of recognition as to the veracity or falsity of paintings. It caused him some initial unease.
Opening her Pelican case, she withdrew a MacBook Pro and a portable USB optical microscope equipped with a macro lens. Setting it up, she selected various areas on the painting and peered into the lens, looking at grain size for mineral pigments while determining if there were retouches intersecting the craqueleur.
Stepping back from time to time to take in the overall painting, she stared at the sections she’d just analyzed, moving her eye around the entire canvas, making visual observations of adjoining areas, then going back in for closer microscopic examination.
Returning to her tools, she extracted an X-ray Fluorescence Gun, an ingenious non-invasive device for analyzing specific elements on objects of, in the assumed case at hand, precious cultural heritage. Performed in fractions of micro-seconds with each burst, the X-ray beam reacts with atoms in the paint pigments by displacing electrons from the inner orbital shells of the atom. In several samples, she detected no presence of lead—an obvious sign that modern synthetic coloring agents had been used. The artist—a very good one, she admired—must have been under pressure to produce this piece quickly, cutting corners by not using appropriate period materials which an artist of such mastery as this surely must have had.
While her back was turned to Villard, he could not see her frowning at the results. Turning around, though, she maintained a stolid poker face. She efficiently returned her tools to the Pelican case and snapped it shut.
Looking directly into Villard’s expectant blue eyes, Vecchio smiled grimly and said, “Now would be a good time for that champagne, monsieur, so we can discuss this forgery of yours.”
Chapter 47
The sun over Venice had set long ago. The scirocco, a warm moist air mass from the Sahara, blew over the chilly waters of the lagoon, and a wet fog had descended over La Serenissima as the temperature dropped. The palazzos along the Grand Canal were vague shadows in the dark. Apart from the mournful wail of foghorns in the distance, all other sounds were muffled.
Hana and Marco had gone out for a late dinner. Though his arm was no longer in a sling, Marco still favored it, pushing through the pain to encourage mobility of the damaged muscle tissue.
Karl and Lukas went to Lupo’s Pub, their new favorite hangout near Harry’s Bar where they could have a few beers and play darts, and though they invited Dominic to come along, he told them he’d rather stay in his room and take in some reading and prayer.
Although he was accustomed to solitude, even embracing it most of the time, a feeling of loneliness had crept over Dominic in the past few days. With his friends paired up and enjoying each other’s company, the realities of being a priest—especially a young and vital one, with an engaging personality—were hitting him especially hard here in the enchanted city known for romance. These were the rare times that tested him most, and he prayed especially hard that he not be consumed by his wandering thoughts.
A good time for a run, he thought.
Changing into a tracksuit and slipping into his Saucony running shoes, Dominic was already feeling better, having decided to act, to do anything but sit in his room and allow his mind to fester.
Taking the stairs down instead of the elevator, when he reached the lobby he reset the step counter on the TAG Heuer strapped to his wrist—a gift from Cardinal Petrini on his ordination—and after a series of stretches, headed toward the Rialto and the San Marco sestiere.
Smoking a cigarette, a man loitering in the shadows outside the Ca’ Sagredo watched the priest leave the hotel’s entrance, do some stretching on a bench, then take off running toward the Rialto Bridge. Taking out his cell phone, the man speed-dialed a special number.
Dominic’s path took him across a small bridge over the Rio dei Santi Apostoli and into the San Marco district. Rather than run the fondomento along the waterfront, he decided to take in the back alleys and smaller walkways. There would be less foot traffic there and he could enjoy Venice’s interior charms, where the people lived and shopped away from the more touristed areas.
Running on cobblestones was a bit of a challenge, but the Sauconys were made for rough trails, so he had few problems handling the paths. Taking a northern turn, he happened upon a stunningly gorgeous church, Santa Maria dei Miracoli, with a colored marble colonnade and a semicircular pediment topping the façade, clearly one of the better early Venetian Renaissance churches he had seen. He stopped, caught his breath, noted a small sign that the church was open until 10 p.m., then entered the building.
Passing through the narthex and on into the nave of the church, Dominic was transfixed by its quiet beauty. A series of towering arched stained glass windows on both sides of the nave, strategically lit from the outside, cast radiant beams of color criss-crossing the wide interior, giving the appearance of a static concert light show.
Toward the back on a side aisle was a stand of votive candles. Genuflecting on the marble floor of the main aisle and making the sign of the cross, he turned to the candle stand, dropped in a couple euros, then lit one of the votives, saying a silent prayer for his lost friends, Carlo and Livia.
After a few more minutes admiring the sacred interior, Dominic pushed open the heavy door to head back out and continue his run.
“Father Dominic, I presume?” ventured a voice in the fog. Looking up, Dominic saw the misty figure of a man standing about ten meters away from him as he emerged from the sanctuary. He was holding something metallic in his right hand, a glint of light shining off it as he confidently bounced it off his left palm: up, down, up, down.
It was a short but menacing dagger.
Dominic recognized the man instantly from the Altamonte Suites in Florence. The one Karl called Faustino.
“I told you we would meet again,” the voice goaded, a wicked smile visible even through the dense fog.
Dominic quickly calculated his path and timing. The man was wearing hard-soled boots; Dominic was convinced he could outrun him. He just had to get past that knife. Hopefully, the assassin wasn’t a skilled knif
e thrower.
“Why don’t you come a little closer so we can have a chat?” Perez coaxed.
“I think I’m quite comfortable here, thanks,” Dominic said, ready to move in either direction if the man pounced.
As he slowly paced one way, Perez calmly mimicked his movement, staying directly in front of him.
“Is there anything in particular you wanted to ‘chat’ about?” the priest asked.
“Oh, I’m certain we could find some common ground. But I doubt you’d appreciate the conversation as much as I w—”
Before he finished the sentence, Dominic bolted to his left and took off running as fast as he could. Perez followed suit, but the older man had clearly not dressed for a foot race.
Dominic sped north on the path alongside the church, taking serpentine steps every couple meters—hoping a thrown knife might miss him—then veered off at a fork into the residential area of San Marco, grabbing cobblestones with every forceful step.
Perez was still behind him, a good eight meters distance between the two.
Dominic looked for a dark alley he could duck into. Anywhere away from light and which had easy access. Spotting one, he darted into it, sprinting at full speed. Reaching the end, he turned right, fleeing up another cobbled path through the thick fog. He could hear Perez’s footsteps still following him, a muffled echo off the tightly packed buildings lining the narrow walkways.
Heading south now, Dominic saw the lights of St. Mark’s Square casting a bright, murky halo around the vast piazza somewhere ahead. Moving in that direction—where even at this hour there would be people milling about—he made his best time yet. His heart was pounding furiously, the effects of fear combined with exertion taking a toll on his stamina.
He made it to the piazza and chanced looking back. Astonishingly, Perez was still in pursuit, but the distance between them had spread. The assassin was a good hundred meters back now, but still running with determination, the knife still pumping up and down in his hand.